


Trapped in the morgue

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, shared body heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 20:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: John and Sherlock get trapped in the morgue overnight and have to share body heat to stay warm (of COURSE they do).In response to a FB prompt, for some quick and smutty sexy times.





	

The door to the morgue slid shut with a metallic, and very final-sounding click that brought Sherlock’s head swinging up from the corpse he was looking at.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you remove the chock from the door?”

“Yeah, problem?”

Sherlock granted John one of his rare contrite looks accompanied by a nod, “Possibly it would have been prudent for me to share that the lock on that door is broken somewhat earlier.”

John’s jaw dropped, just a little before he silently turned and rattled the handle. Not surprisingly, with the exception of a disappointing rattle, the door failed to shift.

“Sherlock,” John turned back to the tall man standing silently beside the broad metal table, “It’s past midnight, there’s nobody else in the building, and we are now locked in the morgue.”

Sherlock’s mouth lifted wryly, “See, I told you that if you spent enough time with me, your deductive abilities would improve.”

“Not funny, Sherlock. Not funny.” John turned and rattled the doorknob again with similar results, muttering over his shoulder, “I can’t believe you—“

“Calm down, John. Dawn is less than six hours away, we’ll be perfectly fi—“

John swung back, fists clenched and mouth tight, “We will ‘not’ be fine. The heating is off, and the chillers down here are designed to keep this place cool. You’ve managed to lock us in a room that’s little more than an oversized refrigerator. So, well done, Sherlock.”

Sherlock mumbled something, eyes averted and John strode up to him, stepping into Sherlock’s personal space and scowling up into his face, “What did you say?”

“I wasn’t the one that closed the door,” he murmured, not meeting John’s eyes.

“What?”

“I said—“

“I heard what you said,” John paused, breathing hard and virtually pressed up against the detective. He brought a hand up and with firm fingers, turned Sherlock’s head back to meet his eyes, “I heard you. You… you…” John’s mouth softened to a grin, “you idiot.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened marginally as he slowly matched John’s smile, a soft chuckle eased itself between John’s lips. Within moments, his own baritone laugh joined his partner’s as the tension broke.

“Right,” John took a step back, his shoulders lifted as he considered their options, “let’s look around and see what we can find to keep us warm.”

Five minutes of searching found very little. The sparse, medical area consisted of brushed metal surfaces and clinical equipment, and the drawers where not already occupied with their sorry burdens, were nothing more that metal benches on sliding tracks.

By the time they’d finished, both men were blowing warm breath onto their fingers in an attempt to stave off the chill.

“I have an idea,” Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, his breath fogging the air, “but you won’t like it.”

“I don’t like the idea of frostbite either, so whatever you’ve come up with, I’m onboard.”

Sherlock took three long strides and pulled open one of the empty cadaver drawers, standing to one side without a word.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” John’s eyes widened, looking at the dark cavity beyond the open door.

“It gets worse, I promise you,” Sherlock shrugged out of his heavy Belstaff coat.

John watched as Sherlock began unbuttoning the buttons on his shirt with fingers already pale and a little blue, before holding up a hand, “Wait… WAIT! Slow down, perhaps you’d better explain this to me.”

“You’re a doctor, John, you know what I have planned. You’re going to take off your coat and jumper, which we’ll use together with both our trousers to insulate ourselves against the cold metal drawer. We’ll use my coat over us, the wool will help conserve our body heat.”

“Our body heat?”

Sherlock sighed, having finished with his shirt and begun undoing the button on his trousers, “Of course. Shared body heat is the most effective process, and the best chance we have of making it through the night without chilblains. Speaking of which, I’d appreciate if you could pick up the pace, I’m getting a trifle chilly here.”

To his credit, John hesitated only a moment longer before getting to work on pulling off his coat and jumper, tossing them into the open doorway of the drawer for Sherlock to arrange. Shrugging off his shirt and jeans, he paused only a moment before stepping forward and passing them to Sherlock, who accepted them quietly with a nod.  
There was an awkward moment where the two men regarded each other, clad only in their underwear and shivering violently before John seemed to come to a decision and pushed past Sherlock to crawl into the narrow cavity, rolling to lay on his back, “Well, C’mon. Get in here, before I change my mind.”

Not needing to be told twice, Sherlock begun his own entrance into the snug space, placing his hands and knees carefully on either side of John as he crawled over him, tugging his coat behind him, and pulling the door closed behind him, plunging them both into darkness..

When he reached the end of the drawer, he found himself crouched over John, his back against the roof of the drawer, his breath warm on John’s face.

“I’m beginning to think this plan has several flaws,” Sherlock said, voice bouncing back off the cold metal, “not least of which is that I appear to have underestimated the physiological consequences of this particular situation.”

On shallow, stuttering breaths, John murmured, “meaning?”

Sherlock seemed to pause, considering his next words carefully until finally settling on, “It’s fine, I’ll just,” John felt him shift, rebalancing on his hands and knees, “I’ll just stay like this.”

There was a moment of fumbled searching until John’s hand settled on Sherlock’s hip, urging him downward with a soft chuckle, “It’s fine, Sherlock. You can’t support your weight like that for hours, and anyway,” John continued to tug him downward until their hips slotted together, “the more the merrier.”

“Oh,” Sherlock bit out the exclamation with something like awe as he felt their erections bump together as the chill between them was banished.

“Now shut up,” John murmured gruffly, “this is weird enough already.”

After another moment of stillness, Sherlock muttered, “I’ll just…” and began wriggling in place.

“Sherlock!” John’s hand on his flatmate’s hip clenched, “What the hell are you –“

“Trying to pull my coat over us… won’t be…” the wriggling recommenced.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock,” John hissed.

“Almost got it,” Sherlock groaned suddenly as their cocks slotted together and rubbed gloriously against each other, “Oh, that’s…”

John’s hand slipped from Sherlock’s hip around to rest at the small of his partner’s back with a small whine, “God… stop moving.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock’s words seemed half question, half plea.  
“Am I sure?” John growled, “No, Sherlock, I’m not sure. I’d quite like to keep going, but since you don’t do this,” for emphasis, John exerted additional pressure against Sherlock’s back, and ground upward against him, “I think you’d better stop… moving… now.”

Sherlock stilled for a moment, face still hidden in darkness, hovering over John’s face, his breath flowing down over John’s cheeks and lips. With a groan, he let himself fall forward, burying his face against John’s neck, nuzzling his lips against the skin there while one of his hands shifted to twine into John’s hair.

“Sherlock?” John tried to pull the pieces together. Sherlock hard against him, lips against his neck, and the subtle tension throughout his lean body, translating itself into tiny stuttering thrusts of his hips, ruthlessly suppressed.

“John,” his voice was muffled, “please.”

John ran a soothing hand up Sherlock’s back, wishing he could see Sherlock’s face, but thinking perhaps the darkness was a gift, “Are you sure?”

John felt Sherlock nod against his neck before the pressure disappeared and reappeared as a gentle touch of lips against his, then a second, firmer press, “Very. I want this, want you.”

John brought up a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, telling him with touch what his eyes couldn’t see and brought their faces together again. Sherlock lips parted with a groan and John took the chance to dip his tongue in, brushing Sherlock’s and then tangling together.

John arched his hips upward, and was rewarded with an answering thrust from Sherlock against him, another groan smothered by John’s mouth.

The warm wool of Sherlock’s coat above them and John’s clothes below surrounded them in familiar smells as they shifted and moved in the enclosed space, elbows connected with metal sides, bringing sharp hisses of pain, followed by giggles at the ridiculousness of their situation. Hips rolled and rocked, hands moving on sweaty skin as they worked out how they fit together. The pitch blackness robbed them of their primary sense giving sound, and scent, and touch greater prominence and importance.

With a needy rumble, Sherlock shoved a hand down their bodies and roughly pushed down his underwear, moving to John’s and more carefully manoeuvring the elastic over his large cock. With long fingers, he fumbled in the dark, bringing them together and holding them with long, violinist’s fingers.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John arched against him, desperate for more skin, more touch, more of everything, “close.”

Sherlock only grunted in response, which John took as a good sign as their thrusts became more erratic, more desperate.

With a final moan and lurch of his hips, Sherlock went rigid and started to come, his hand giving one stuttering tug before warm wetness spread between them in a series of pulses. John gasped his name, the smell of sex suddenly so pungent in the enclosed space pushing him to his own climax.

Sherlock slumped bonelessly on top of him, breathing hard, the fine tremors of aftershocks twitching through them both.

“You ok?” John murmured, bringing his clean hand up to stroke through soft curls.

“Mmmm,” came the mumbled reply.

“You’re going to go to sleep there, aren’t you?”

“Mmmmm.”

“We’re gonna be stuck together in the morning.”

“Mmmm,” the murmur was distinctly softer this time.

John checked happily, fuzzy in the soft aftermath of orgasm, “OK then.”

**--**

Molly thought there was something odd when she arrived at 7am and spotted Sherlock’s files still open on the desk, but no sign of the detective. It was only 30 minutes later when she did her morning rounds that she opened the door to the drawer.

There was a brief moment of confusion when she identified two sets of feet at the end of the supposedly vacant drawer. But confusion turned to embarrassment when a deep baritone voice muttered, “Close the door Molly, my arse is getting cold.”

With a dismayed squeak, she swung the door shut and went for a very long coffee. When she returned, the drawer was empty.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Trapped in the Morgue - Artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524528) by [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat)




End file.
